The Aftermath Realisation Metamorphosis
by MissLaurenV
Summary: Good, he had said with defiance. Good, because he'd intended on sarcasm laced with bitterness. Good, because he'd made his point. Good, because he had won. Hadn't he?
1. Chapter 1

**The Aftermath Realisation Metamorphosis**

_Disclaimer_: I do not own nor do I profit from The Big Bang Theory or any of its related characters.

_Author's Note_: A complete and utter jumble of thoughts from the kiss. This was quite literally dreamed up last night, and I needed it out of my brain. My crazy take on it as well as the aftermath. Enjoy!

* * *

If there was one thing Sheldon Cooper couldn't resist, it was a challenge.

Not just any challenge, oh no—a challenge born from months, _years_ of mounting frustration and pressure; fueled by the sting of cunning deceit and the sour urge to _put her in her place. _In spite of his own strict adherence to rules and respect for the sodden moral high ground he stood upon, this challenge was palpable, and he took the fleeting opportunity to skew the odds in his favour. He took the opportunity to _win. _

His victory hadn't been what he had intended it to be, but he had succeeded nonetheless. In the end, he had derailed his own train irreparably, and crashed head-on into the win that he had planned on passing by.

_Good, _he had said with defiance. Good, because he'd intended on sarcasm laced with bitterness. Good, because he'd made his point. Good, because he had _won. _Hadn't he?

Good God, _hadn't _he?

All that heavy duress, all that anger, had roiled up in the confines of his mind and detonated, splintering his anxiety, his intellect, his ability to _just know better_. It had wounded these imperative faculties so badly that all logical thought and reason had just _gone_, leaving only destruction.

Because then he'd kissed her.

Firmly and soundly and properly _kissed _Amy Farrah Fowler, right on the lips. The same darn lips that infuriated him no end with their incessant pushing, scheming ways and siren-like qualities. The same darn ruby red lips that had kissed him, twice before.

And it wasn't anything like he'd thought it would be.

It wasn't fireworks or the world tilting on an axis or just stopping entirely. It wasn't a cloud-floated trip to the heavens where angels sung and doves flew by. It wasn't even time grinding to a halt or freezing them solid in that very moment. It wasn't any of those things at all.

It was silence. It was a heady, numbing hum that crept from her mouth to his, seeping to every extremity of his body and shutting down his ever-active, ever-fearful mind. It was warmth, molten in his veins as it charged through his chest at a rate so unimaginable he feared it may kill him. It was limitless feeling—uncontained and unrestricted—a physical response so strong that he couldn't control the surge of his lips moving against hers, or the way his hips suddenly had a mind of their very own. It was a hunger—so sudden and consuming—to tower over her and devour her. It was raw, unfathomable desire, blindsiding him with such force that it knocked the air from his lungs.

It was over in eleven seconds.

_Do you want to come with me? _He had asked, staring hazily down at her rapt expression and swollen mouth, because the thought of her being anywhere else was—in that moment—unbearable.

Good, because he had won—the battle with her, and the battle with himself.

But the battle didn't end there. Instead, it morphed into a raging war; a panicked flurry of disorientating awareness he had never experienced before. Suddenly the way she wrung her hands in her lap caused him to blush, and the collar of her blouse tugged at the yearning that had newly stirred between his thighs. Suddenly he was noticing her lack of opaque tights, and the creamy tone of her calves as they walked amongst the ropey vines that Saturday afternoon. Suddenly the door adjoining their cozy suites—locked as he had so pressingly insisted the day before—seemed as though it were glowing; fiery with the dare to cross over to the dark side.

Suddenly she was a living, breathing, alluring distraction, and he had to pull back.

But that was when the dreams began.

The first came that very evening, as he fought with the snugly tucked, bleach-scented sheets that enveloped his body tightly against the unfamiliar mattress. The dream bled into his brain in vivid colour, seeping into every crack of his eidetic memory, until there was no escaping the longing infused within him. She knitted her fingers into his hair, pulling him deeper into her sweetly flavoured lips, and the gentle rocking of the coach set him rocking against her. Passengers surrounding them didn't lift a brow as he peeled the clothes from her body and rocked her back onto the table they had once dined at, her sensible undergarments encasing her soft curves in the same red of the wine he had sipped. And of course, she rocked him as her deft fingers worked their way down—tie, buttons, buckle and fly.

Sheldon awoke with a tented problem that even the firmly wrapped bedding couldn't successfully contain, and—for the first time in his life—he sought desperate relief for the ache he knew was here to stay.

He continued to draw away from her in the real world, after that.

But still, the second came only nights later, in the comfort of his own bedroom, and he dreamt of the glowing door, blown wide open for his perusal. This time, no motion swayed them, no one sat nearby—this time, that blissful silence swallowed him whole as he loomed above her silk-gowned form, knees and palms pressing into her bed. This time, the slippery fabric of her nightie gathered amongst her parted thighs, and he skimmed his tongue across her lip boldly, hurriedly. His hands wandered the baffling expanse of velvety skin adorning her stomach and climbed the hill of her bare breast, and he allowed himself to moan as she touched him, without hesitation.

This time, a cold shower was all that would rid the primal throb that pulsed through him.

The third time came in a rush, tossing him frighteningly into the reality of his metamorphosis. Unlike before, the tattoo of his dream was blurred on the surface of his mind; black and white rather than brilliantly coloured hues. It was hasty and messy and carnal—their pleasure drugging him to a height he didn't know he could reach. The stickiness of their skin, the grunt from deep in his throat, the bite of her fingernails—it all came in snippets; a darkened slideshow of passion so electric it scared him, and ignited him, all at once.

The drunken feeling kept him woozy in his waking moments—marveling in the imaginary feel of her glossy hair, the sound of her breathy satisfaction. He held up no resistance to the hand that strayed beneath his underwear—one that had drawn her waist toward him days earlier—and brought himself to magnificent completion, in spite of the control he was so desperate to maintain.

Why had he gone ahead and kissed her?

The fourth came, and this time, it was a nightmare. This time, they were rocking on their train—in the gold-trimmed, vintage carriage dotted with crystal wine glasses and china crockery—and once again, he was kissing those lips with insolent ferocity. This time, his image shook with colour and shade; buzzed with sound and silence; wavered entirely as he heaved her onto the dining table. Glass shattered to the floor and the rip of fabric deafened him as he pawed at her skin and bit into her neck. This time, the Sheldon in his dream lost control, sheathing himself absently within her. This time, the severity of his desire was terrifying; a warning as he realised he had hurt her by the blood staining his skin.

He went to Amy, then.

She was peering up at him curiously through squinted eyes when she tore the door open after a record-breaking nine knocks on her apartment door. "Sheldon, what's wrong?" She scanned her spectacle-less eyes over him, running a hand tiredly through her mussed hair. "Please don't tell me you've got your bongos…"

He pushed past her, pacing her apartment like a madman in pyjama pants and a windbreaker. What would he tell her? Why was he here?

Most importantly, could he _look _at her in that lace-trimmed nightgown without pouncing like an animal in heat?

"Sheldon," she said sternly, "I haven't heard from you in days, and now you show up here at two in the morning, without so much as a message—_and _you're missing a sock—"

Her voice quietened as he drew a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots with a growl. He spun to her, wide-eyed. "I can't do this," he blurted, without intending to. "I can't…"

She was perched on the very edge of one of her bar stools, watching him warily. "Okay…" she replied slowly. "You seem awfully agitated, Sheldon, perhaps I should organise a blanket and you should rest on my couch until the morning—"

"I don't want to sleep on your couch!" He cried, and she visibly jumped. "I didn't mean—I'm sorry—"

Her eyes darted away from him and she slipped off the seat, her gown snagging beneath her to reveal a flash of leg. "Let me make you a hot beverage," she mumbled, rounding the counter to the kettle. "Tea, I'll make you tea…"

"I don't want tea, either," he said through clenched teeth. "There is no hot beverage for what I am feeling at this moment…"

She encircled her arms around herself and chewed her lip lightly. "Is this about…the kiss?"

For a moment, he couldn't look at her, because he was certain that if he did, she would see straight through the shield he was shakily holding against his body. These days, simply _looking _at her caused the smooth surface of his mind to skip, let alone discussing…_that_.

"If it is, we need to talk about it," she continued, still alongside the boiling kettle. "You have not been yourself since the event, and whilst I can understand it was quite shocking for you—as it was for me—there is a considerable amount of evidence that indicates your…_enjoyment…_"

He closed his eyes and gulped, pleading himself to remain calm.

"I have been concerned as to your behaviour this past week, and naturally I am fearful that you may wish to terminate the relationship," she went on. "If that is the case, I won't put up any resistance—but I do implore you to consider whether that's what you truly want." Despite her attempted composure, her voice wavered slightly, and he couldn't help but glance over at her. She seemed to falter. "If you no longer wish to kiss me, we can come to some sort of arrangement—"

_No longer wish to kiss you? _His mind screamed at her. _You will be the death of me, vixen. _

It seemed, now, that she simply babbling with reactive, emotive energy. "I certainly enjoyed it—you know I did—and I thought you did, and I have no doubt you will again in the future—but if, for now, you don't want to kiss me any more we can just—"

There was only one way Sheldon knew how to shut Amy up, and it was a technique he had learnt only days ago—he swept forward at a rate of knots, and kissed her, squeezing his eyes shut as the tidal wave of feeling drowned him as it had the first time.

_Oh, my Amy._

Fingers somehow crept their way up his neck and into his hair—a whole new experience in itself—and he pinioned her against the counter, hands firm on her waist. Unlike days prior, when she had frozen beneath his touch, Amy pressed back, moving with the tilt of his jaw and the mercilessness of his lips on hers.

It was over in thirteen seconds.

He rested his forehead against hers, desperately trying to gather his muddled thoughts. "I dreamed that I hurt you," he said, a slight pant to his deepened voice. He hated this haze, and yet he loved it, all the same. "I dreamed that I lost control and I…"

She hushed him, a slender finger sliding over his lips as she caught his eye. "I promise you that will not happen," she said steadily. He let out a long breath and nodded, pulling back from her. She smiled cheekily all of a sudden. "I do have one suggestion for your nightmares though…"

Slowly, but ever-so-surely, panic began to set in, reminding him of how he had been delightfully weak—again. She leant up to his ear and her lips grazed the lobe. "Sleep with me," she said huskily.

What happened after that was quite simple—he fled her apartment, just as any right-minded man would. But that didn't mean he would back down—oh no, not in the slightest.

Because if there was one thing Sheldon Cooper couldn't resist, it was a challenge.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Aftermath Realisation Metamorphosis**

_Disclaimer_: I do not own nor do I profit from The Big Bang Theory or any of its related characters.

_Author's Note_: Well, I ended up deciding to continue this, just for one more chapter. Enjoy, and don't forget to leave some love!

This one is dedicated to Virginia...ILY, sis.

* * *

In a perfect world, intimacy would not scare Amy Farrah Fowler in the slightest. In the perfect world she had imagined herself in, her boyfriend would press a kiss to her famished lips, and she would relent, melting into him without qualm. In this world, she would exude confidence and tantalising moves to floor her man, and have a willing way with him then and there.

But God, she could never have anticipated what had come to pass the very first time Sheldon Cooper kissed her.

A burning intrigue in finding her inner sexual prowess and discovering her sultry, sensual self had been off to a late start; some would, perhaps, even view her as being off on the wrong foot. At thirty-two years of age, Amy stumbled into a realm chocked full of exciting unknowns; of a magnificent, God-like creature who stood at over six foot tall with a mind that could blow her own. Reservations, and perhaps the tiniest of resentments, had swayed her desire for many, relief-less years, and—suddenly—the world was crashing down upon her. In the span of a few short months, her sharp, career-driven mind was being blissfully overtaken by fantasies that one would expect during adolescence—but Amy didn't mind one bit. She soaked it in and began sculpting herself into the sexually confident, brilliant woman she had so quickly longed to become. The Goddess to his God.

Her knowledge of the mind—her most natural gift—had her hoping she would sway her stubborn boyfriend from the grips of his caged ways. What she craved more than anything, he avoided, staunchly; ensuring they would never evolve from anything more than a relationship of the mind. Slowly, she learnt more about this man—this _boy_, trapped in a man's body—and slowly, she coaxed him toward her dark side. Unplanned changes began to bloom from her efforts, and—in spite of her frustration—she remained cool when he took two leaps backward. It would take time, she would remind herself, and continue to persevere.

It was no mean feat, however, to train the untamable. Pressure mounted within her like a bomb, and her fuse quickly grew short. Was his obstinance a reflection on her? Was she so repulsive to him? Would he never give, simply expect to take? Fumbling under the strain of her own wants, she began to push him—unknowingly, at times, and deliberately, at others. All exhausting efforts seemed futile—aside from the few hairline fractures he would display under harsh light—until the night of their third Valentine's Day.

Boy, oh boy, had she been wrong.

A fiery, bitter feud between the two had sparked something in him, it was clear. Perhaps she had pushed him too hard, perhaps not, but at the mere mention of the romance she deserved, Sheldon unleashed his frustration upon her like a tirade. He was angry, and on a mission to prove his point: that he was not this man she was willing him to be. She recoiled, but it was pointless—not even his own anxieties and fears could overcome the wild emotion he was feeling in that moment.

Because then he'd kissed her.

Hard and fast, with enough power to flare and paralyse every nerve in her body. A sour gesture at first, charged by his compulsion to prove her wrong, it quickly morphed into a thick, tangible heat that overpowered his usual sensibilities completely. In sheer seconds, Sheldon Cooper had swooped in, pressed the length of his body against her, and fallen gloriously into the pit of lust-fuelled emotion he hadn't dared even gaze into. He grasped at her waist, melded those beckoning lips against her own, and as he drew her in closer, she could have sworn she felt the full extent of his enjoyment harden against her.

See, now, this is where Amy's perfect world had crumbled around her.

She froze, stony solid, in the wake of his actions. Every ounce of pent up frustration, of caged emotion, seemed to have been rolled against her in this fervent kiss. Her entire body came to a grinding halt; air escaping from her lungs and heart forbidden to beat. The rousing shock was near painful—God it hurt _so good_—and her control, her steady upper hand, was swiftly stolen from her by the red-blooded beast that had finally pounced. Suddenly she felt completely vulnerable to the raw, hungry gaze that his blackened eyes were roaming her with, and panic began to set in: _what have I gotten myself into?_

His ferocity was, frankly, terrifying.

The perfect world of sexual confidence, of seduction and fearlessness, was shredded to ribbons and set on fire. She wanted it all, and yet she wanted nothing, all at once, and as he stared down at her with that unfamiliar thirst about him, she found she couldn't even look at him. Would he lose control, devour her on the spot? Would he continue to drill her with the malice of his argument, angrily blame her for what he had so hastily done? Or would he run, in a mortified frenzy, as far from her as he possibly could?

To her surprise, he kept his ground, tossing her only the tiniest note of defiance. When he invited her to join him in the engine room, the inner turmoil she was experiencing shone straight through: _really, you want me to come with you?_

Because, stunned as she was, she did want to. More than anything.

The entire event had knocked her down a peg or two, there were no doubts about that. She spent the following days visiting the rolling vineyards of the Napa Valley in a wary daze; cataloging his every move. Any time his glance wandered from it's usual indifferent stare, she felt a stir in her gut. Over the doily covered breakfast table, as she licked her lip clean of jam and made idle conversation with Bernadette, his eye strayed to her mouth. In the faintly lit hall outside her suite, as he hastily bid her goodnight, his gaze darted to her bosom. On the train ride home, as she settled into her assigned seat and crossed one leg over the other, his eye lingered on her uncovered knees.

It seemed, by all accounts, as though Sheldon Cooper was struggling to contain the hot-blooded man that had been unleashed during their aggressive lip-lock.

She, however, remained cautiously quiet, and she contained her own longing to the confines of her mind. Suddenly, imagining the hot touch of his hands trailing her curves was crisper, sharper than it had ever been, and the taste of him loitered with her as she tempted herself with fantasies of his affections. She explored these newly discovered sensations unabashedly; allowing her fingers to wander along with her mind from the very first night he kissed her. Nothing but an adjoining door separated them from one another, and the thought was unnerving, yet exhilarating. She dreamt of him catching her in the act of guiltless self-pleasure, and then sliding beneath the silky sheets to writhe with her. She dreamt of his palms skimming her trembling, open thighs, and the slickness of their skin meeting as one. She dreamt of kissing every inch of him; of how hard he became, for her and only her. She dreamt of his heavy, laboured breath gasping and moaning at her ear, as he drew them both to the very brink of climax.

It didn't surprise her one bit when Sheldon began to back away.

Perhaps she, too, had drawn inward in her fear and her nervous excitement. He slowed their communications swiftly within days of their return home, and spoke to her with a clipped shortness when they were face-to-face. He claimed important work at the university to be absorbing his precious time, and she bit her tongue. The shadowed darkness beneath his eyes told a different story, as did the way he bit into his lower lip when he looked at her for too long.

She hardly expected him to show up at her door, unannounced, in the early hours of the morning, and she most certainly had not expected him to kiss her, again.

He swept into her apartment like a whirlwind, pacing the floor without so much as a glance in her direction. The man was a frazzled, hot mess—tufts of hair poking out in all directions, a sock absent from one foot, and hands fidgeting wildly. When she attempted to calm him, he snapped at her. When she attempted to find out what was wrong, he scowled and squeezed his eyes right shut. And, finally, when she had brokenly expressed her fears that he no longer wished to kiss her, he proved her wrong, all over again.

_Oh, my Sheldon._

This time, there was no distance to close; no sudden unearthing of a desire he hadn't known existed—only instant, breathtaking fire. Her tailbone connected roughly with the countertop behind her as he pressed into her, both large hands splayed across her waist with a vice-like grip. This time, his lips moved dangerously, and yet innocently, against hers, with an urgency that mirrored her own. His throat echoed the tiniest grunt of pleasure as their hips connected, sending shivers down her spine. This time, she demanded that her body respond, and she wove her fingers into his mussed hair, scraping her nails down his neck.

This time, it lasted thirteen seconds.

After he broke away, panting and panicked, he leant his head against hers. "I dreamed that I hurt you," he said, his voice gruff, "I dreamed that I lost control and I..."

Silencing him, she swallowed the sudden urge she felt to press for more detail—was that what had been spurring his cool demeanour? Was he dreaming of her, as she was dreaming of him? She promised him that would never happen, and mustered all her courage to cheekily suggest he stay the night in her bed—well, perhaps his interpretation had been somewhat different, as he fled the premises in a flash seconds later.

Now that she most certainly had anticipated.

But she couldn't let him go. With a roll of her eyes, she raced out of her apartment after him. "Sheldon!" She called, in a strained, loud whisper as she descended the dark stairwell. The sound of his thundering footsteps was not far ahead of her, and she tried again. "Sheldon!"

She unexpectedly thumped into something warm and solid, knocking the air from her lungs and the glasses on her face. Sheldon gripped her nightie-clad hips to steady her, and in the half-light, she could see him staring at her mouth with frantic eyes. "What?" He hissed, and immediately groaned as he released her like she were horrid and germ-infested. "I will not sleep with you, woman!"

"Just come back upstairs," she said, and when he hesitated, she laced her fingers through his and tugged him up the stairs. Once firmly planted in the privacy of her apartment, she let go of his hand and looked back at him. "I believe you misunderstood me—"

"Oh no you don't!" He said, pointing a long finger in her direction with narrowed eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, I am fully aware of the meaning of that phrase, and despite my appalling lack of self-control I refuse to succumb to your Siren-like qualities—"

_Siren-like qualities? _"Sheldon, just listen to me," she said, and his jaw clenched. "I do not underestimate your knowledge of the saying, but my suggestion was innocent—if nightmares are what ail you, sleeping alongside another person can be very comforting."

He swallowed sharply. "I don't believe you," he said, and there was a long pause as he stared her down. An odd tension began to emanate from him, and she folded her arms across her body, uncertainty creeping over her. "Fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine," he said, "I will sleep in your bed."

It was her turn to narrow her eyes. "With me in it?"

He pursed his lips and waved his arm out toward her bedroom. "Lead me to your lair, vixen."

_Oh. _

The bed dipped when he slipped in alongside her moments later, and she wondered nervously whether he could hear her heart rattling her ribcage. Her hand gripped the crinkled sheets she held securely beneath her chin as she drew her knees toward her chest, the blurred outline of his form settling onto his back nearby. The lump in his pale throat rose and fell, and she vaguely heard the shallowness of his breath. With inches and layers between them, nothing had ever felt so petrifying, and yet so electrifying.

He was perfectly still, however his fingertips drummed the floral covers lightly. "How is it?" She asked quietly, cursing herself internally at the ambiguity of her question.

His eyes didn't shift from the ceiling fan whirring above them. "Warm," he told her.

She chewed her lip lightly, allowing his husky response to linger. "I _was_ just sleeping in it…"

"I know."

It was, perhaps, an hour before Amy allowed her eyelids to drift closed—the glow of his skin and rhythm of his breathing was truly mesmerising. Within seconds of surrendering to her fatigue, a certain set of long fingers crept across the mattress to curve into the dip of her waist, his thumb gently stroking the fabric that adorned the peak of her hipbone. The foreign touch set her blood pumping in her veins, but she wouldn't freeze; she wouldn't fear—not this time.

Because, in a perfect world, intimacy would not scare Amy Farrah Fowler in the slightest.


End file.
